


Unsaid

by skipcodes



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Viclock, set during the hiatus, victorlock - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-07
Updated: 2014-08-07
Packaged: 2018-02-12 03:17:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2093664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skipcodes/pseuds/skipcodes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, things are just better left unsaid.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unsaid

**Author's Note:**

> Originally my gift for the Viclock Gift Exchange, written for its-funnier-in-sherlockian on tumblr.

As all great writers, Victor Trevor is someone that needs to feel. He needs things to be tactile. Real. Or else they don't seem real at all. He thought that it was the same case for everyone else. Leave evidence. Evidence that something was there, something happened, that something was felt.

That's why he only left Sherlock a letter, all those years ago. What he knew best. Pretty words. Comforting words.

_I'm sure that I'll see you in the future We found each other once. I'm sure that we can do it again. Chin up._

Victor Trevor always had faith in his own words. He saw truth in them, as vain as that sounds. If he didn't, then who would?

It wasn't until Victor made his way back to London that those words on that single sheet of paper started to constantly float over his head. The name 'Sherlock Holmes' was everywhere. He couldn't get away from it. He couldn't prepare.

But, he had to remind himself why he had came back to London in the first place: he was tired of running away. He wasn't here to run. He was here to be.

Victor never saw Sherlock.

Ironically, he thought it was because he thought it was never meant to be, at this point. There wasn't that idea of  _fate_  in the back of his mind. Not anymore. Until he saw the headline on his newspaper one Sunday morning.

_FRAUDULENT DETECTIVE TAKES HIS OWN LIFE_.

He never thought that six words could make his stomach flip so easily, so quickly, effortlessly.

You always regret all that you never said when the person's heart stops.

* * *

It's a Thursday night and Victor is doing nothing but busying himself with tidying up the flat -- juvenile work, really, but it keeps him occupied on the rainy evening. Very rainy, he might add. He wasn't even considering going outside due to the state of the weather, and, really, he didn't have a problem staying in. He's a simple man in most respects and he has absolutely no issue with it. There's the faint sound of music playing from his laptop on the coffee table in the living room as he moves about the kitchen, putting away teacups and mugs and plates and wiping off counter space. It's only when he hears a sudden knock at the door does he dare glance down at his watch to check the time. 8:51 P.M.

_Bit late, isn't it?_

His brow creases and he wipes his hands off on a rag, striding by his laptop to pause the music before cautiously opening the door, not having the faintest idea who could possibly be wanting to visit at this hour of night.  
  
Though, the person that the door reveals behind it is actually an explanation all in themselves. Himself.

"Victor."

Victor can't find anything in the back of his throat to return the greeting besides a choked out, "Sherlock." Even that one utterance takes him a moment.

Sherlock doesn't look like Sherlock, though. His hair is messed and damp with rain (nevertheless clad in nothing more than a dark hoodie and jeans). He looks exhausted. Hurt. Past due.

After that, Sherlock doesn't say another word. He simply brushes by Victor to step into the flat. Victor lets him, along with what feels like a century of things unsaid.

* * *

 

They're in Victor's bathroom, now. After too much coaxing, Victor finally got Sherlock to admit that he wasn't okay. After that, even, Sherlock gave him word about a few cuts and scrapes that would most likely have a brutal bacterial infection if not properly taken care of soon, which had led to Victor promptly taking Sherlock to his front bathroom as he sat him down on the toilet seat and rummaged through a plastic First Aid kit for anything he could find.

The silence in the air isn't technically... _uncomfortable_.

"A 'thank you' would be nice." Victor murmurs underneath his breath as he gently swipes at a cut on Sherlock's chest with an alcohol wipe, though his tone is... slightly teasing.

"...Thank you." Sherlock manages. He's still shivering from the rain (the blanket Victor had lent him didn't seem to be helping).

Victor is the first to address the elephant.

"Either you're very-much not dead, or I had a drink too many last night," He sighs quietly, glancing up at Sherlock's tired eyes for a moment with a bit of a sympathetic smile. "I always seem to have... interesting dreams after I've been drinking."

"I know." Sherlock murmurs, the side of his mouth quirking up just slightly. Victor takes it. "I'm very-much not dead."

Victor's eyes flicker up to meet his, as if it's a silent plea for an explanation, or anything. He gets nothing.

"I have to leave in the morning. I figured--... I figured you wouldn't mind if I stopped by. You're the only one who I know lives around here. And I thought--..."

"I don't mind." Victor murmurs simply, bandaging the aforementioned cut before moving to the next one.

"Oh."

"Were you expecting me to mind?"

"...I don't know." Is all Sherlock says.

"It's the least that I can do," Victor sighs, "After... everything that--.... I-I don't know." _I'm still sorry._

"...Well. Thank you." Sherlock finally murmurs. "Nice to have someone that I can still... depend on."

"Always, Will." Victor doesn't really notices what he says, it flows off of his tongue so naturally. Neither of them say anything about it once it's said.

It still feels surreal, to Victor. In the far back of his mind, he honestly never really thought that he would be able to see Sherlock again. Not after what had happened. Yet, he had chosen to come to Victor, of all people. Perhaps he didn't have a choice in the first place. After all, he did say Victor was the only person he knew around the area, anyway (Victor didn't want to know how Sherlock knew that).

Sherlock winces slightly as Victor begins to work at a cut on his shoulder, hissing quietly before he quickly apologizes. "God, s-sorry--... This one's a bit... brutal." He sighs quietly, flinching slightly, himself.

"I've had worse." Sherlock manages with a weak smirk as his nose wrinkles from the pain. "Survived falling four stories, after all."

Victor manages to crack a small smirk at his humor(?), though he doesn't ask how Sherlock got these cuts. He's still shivering, and Victor frowns. "I'll have to get some tea in you once we're done here." He tells him as-a-matter-of-factly. "Can't risk you... getting a cold overnight, now, can we?"

"No, mum." Sherlock murmurs in reply.

"Can't have you wither away on me, either."

Sherlock doesn't reply, and Victor doesn't expect him to.

* * *

 

"I-I really don't mind sleeping on the sofa--..."

"Victor. I'm fine."

"No, really, it would probably be much more comfortable, and--..."

"Victor. _I'm fine_."

Victor couldn't agree with that, though. Not after what he had seen in those minutes before while they were both sitting in the bathroom. The pale skin that his hands had once covered was now bruised and battered, dirty and dry. Abused. It brought a far-too familiar sick feeling back to the pit of his stomach, and all he wanted was Sherlock to _sleep in a proper bed_ so that he would _at least feel a little bit better for one night_.

"...I-I insist. The sofa isn't the best, anyways."

That only earns a long, drawn out sigh from Sherlock, who grits his teeth and finally nods. "Will you stop asking?"

"If you sleep in the bed, yeah." Victor mutters, rubbing the back of his neck.

Sherlock huffs, grabbing the pillow and standing from the sofa before he begins to pad off down the hallway in a grumble, Victor's dressing gown hanging from his frame (which he had insisted on wearing, for some strange reason). It's slightly too long for him, and the sight makes Victor smile for a split second. 

* * *

Victor can't sleep on that sofa, regardless of how hard he tries. Not only is it honestly not the most comfortable thing, but it's mostly due to the circumstances. The man that had mysteriously turned up at his flat, after all of these years. There's lines and lines of regret painted on his tongue and stuck in the back of his throat and all of this feels like too little time. They were supposed to have all of the time in the world, at once point.

It almost sickens him how much things can change.

He knows all that needs to be said, what should be said, isn't going to end up being said. Sherlock will be gone in the morning, and, knowing him, he'll simply slip out the front door without a sound. Victor knows that he doesn't want to talk. He's here to sleep and get well. That's all.

When Victor realizes that he won't be getting any sleep, his only choice is to take the chance and slip through the door and into the darkness of his bedroom where Sherlock is hopefully sleeping to retrieve of a novel from his bookshelf. He's ever-so-quiet, avoiding that one squeaky floorboard and doesn't turn the doorknob too far because he knows that it'll rattle. His steps are quiet, and he's just about to grab the book and make his leave, but a voice forces him out of his concentration. "Victor." It sounds more like a question, though.

He about jumps ten feet, even though he shouldn't be surprised.

"O-Oh, god, y-yeah. Sorry. Is... everything alright?" His voice his still hushed, almost a whisper.

"Can't sleep." Sherlock finally admits.

"...W-What can I get you?"

He sees Sherlock shrug through the darkness, only slightly lit by the dim light of the streetlamps coming through the window. Sherlock's laid out on his back, his arms tucked behind his head. Victor pretends that he isn't noticing how the light is casting lovely shadows over the side of his face -- it's striking. The man in his bed his absolutely striking. The only sound that can be heard besides their faint breathing is the sound of passing vehicles outside.

Sherlock turns his head towards Victor, which automatically causes the breath to catch in Victor's throat, and for the first time that night, the gaze Sherlock is giving is... relaxed. Non-combative. Sherlock feels safe in this presence.

"Victor." He says again, quietly, this time. It rings like song in Victor's chest.

"Mm?" Victor asks, as if it's the the only speaking he's capable of at the moment. It really is, as much as he would never admit it. Everything about this night has caught him off-guard (regardless of the part of him that is entirely too grateful).

"Come here."

And, well, Victor blinks once. Twice. Again. But, he obliges. _Come here._

In fact, he crawls right into bed, right next to Sherlock without a moment's hesitation. The other man doesn't seem to mind, either.

"You've always been so whole-hearted, Victor Trevor," Sherlock whispers, though it seems more of an observation than a compliment.

Victor doesn't say much to that, but his lips do press together and he turns his head on the pillows to look over at Sherlock.

"You best be careful," He continues in a murmur, eyes still trained on the ceiling, "You let so many people into that heart of yours and you're not going to have any room left for yourself."

Victor doesn't comment, because he knows that far too well already.

* * *

When Victor wakes up in the morning with no detective at his side as he was hoping, he learns that every trace of Sherlock is gone. Every single one.

No cold tea.

No letter.

Nothing, besides Victor's dressing gown draped over the side of the sofa. Victor is almost positive that it was a dream.

Part of him is grateful, though.

As all great writers know, some things are better left unsaid.


End file.
